


Extra Credit

by CopperBeech



Series: The Education Of Mistress Aziraphale [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Afterglow, Anal Fingering, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Discipline, Dom/sub, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gratuitous ballet metaphors, Headmistress, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Rimming, Roleplay, Shameless Smut, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Spanking, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), school fantasy, they're switches bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27535030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: The Education Of Mistress Aziraphale takes a turn towards, well, education as she tries out the role ofHeadmistressAziraphale.  Absolute, utter filth. Don’t @ me.“Corporal punishment is out of fashion, but I find that judiciously applied, it constitutes a salutary corrective. Face down over my lap, please. You leave me no choice.”The prefect, tall and gangly, props herself on both hands as the Headmistress lifts the hem of her pleated kilt.“I recommend you accept this quietly. It will make a favourable impression.”A short silence.“My, my, Miss Ashtoreth. Quite the violation of dress code. It makes my task easier, however.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Education Of Mistress Aziraphale [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882369
Comments: 34
Kudos: 90





	Extra Credit

**Author's Note:**

> Have some smut for the weekend. Continues a series of [fem! Aziraphale (mostly wives) fics](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882369) equally lacking in redeeming social value, which was itself a bookend to a series of [fem! Crowley fics](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828699). Nanny got her chance to dom (and smack a little bottom), so turnabout is fair play.
> 
> I’ve been sitting on this because I’m always a little uncertain about writing even a scene that suggests a real-life power imbalance. But they’re grown-ups (six thousand years and some), and if they want to try out a fantasy that involves a boarding school and a uniform kilt and the Headmistress’ office, I decided they can have at it. Just be aware in case teacher-student seduction might be triggering for you.

“I expected better behaviour from a prefect, Miss Ashtoreth.”

“It won’t happen again, Headmistress.”

“How are we to guarantee that? You said exactly the same thing after the incident with the Board of Governors.”

“It was just Canon Gabriel, marm. He was rude to you.”

“How I respond to that must be my decision. I can’t let it be said that you are a favourite of mine. This time there must be consequences.”

“I’m sorry, marm.”

“You should be. Every single rat in the Natural Sciences building. However did you get them all into the library?”

“Um, natural gift, marm.”

“Come closer.”

Prefect Ashtoreth takes a tentative step closer. She’s dressed in a dark red-and-black tartan kilt, black button-down shirt, and blazer, with sensible shoes and bare knobbly knees peeping out the tops of cable socks.

“Remove those affected spectacles. It’s not even bright in here.”

True, it’s not. The Headmistress’ Office is a scholarly edifice of bookshelves and antiquities, oddly resembling the back room of a certain bookshop in Soho. She’s seated on a Queen Anne loveseat, her own reading glasses on a chain round her neck, her severe expression at odds with her matronly bun and full bosom.

“I also have reports that you spoke quite pertly to – let’s see – the Fencing Mistress, and to the Games Master as well. It seems that earlier warnings to keep your tongue in check have fallen on deaf ears. Fond as I am of you, we must have standards for our prefects. I’m obliged to put you on probation for a short period.”

“I understand, marm.”

“ _And_ there are rumours of your doing… things with the other girls in the dormitories. It is hardly a good look for the school.”

Prefect Ashtoreth doesn’t answer that one, but the slitted pupils of her yellow eyes narrow.

“So _many_ infractions call for a reminder that you will carry with you after you leave this office. Stand here next to me.”

Miss Ashtoreth complies after a moment’s hesitation.

“Corporal punishment is out of fashion, but I find that judiciously applied, it constitutes a salutary corrective. Face down over my lap, please. You leave me no choice.”

The prefect, tall and gangly, props herself on both hands as the Headmistress lifts the hem of her pleated kilt.

“I recommend you accept this quietly. It will make a favourable impression.”

A short silence.

“My, my, Miss Ashtoreth. Quite the violation of dress code. It makes my task easier, however.”

A scarlet thong disappears between tight, round arse cheeks, leaving them entirely exposed.

“Where did you find such provocative underthings?”

“I went to the London shops at term break, marm.”

“Well, if you like the wearing the colour red under your skirts, we can oblige you.”

The first smack explodes into the quiet, dusty room like a firecracker, and Miss Ashtoreth’s back arches.

“You see, there’ll be a vivid memory.”

The outline of a handprint comes up in pink on the slender bum. Several smacks follow in a quick flurry, the prefect unable to control her reflex to writhe away, the Headmistress’ hand at the small of her back thwarting escape. The hand springs away as soon as it makes contact, sharpening the sound in the small space.

“I’ll continue until I’m positive you’ll feel this after I’m done. Simple admonition clearly rolls off you.”

Nine or ten more blows land on the barely padded curve of the prefect’s behind, until she’s biting her underlip with curiously sharp teeth, a tear squeezing out at the corner of each tightly closed eye, sucking in a hitching breath with every impact. But also, as the blows multiply, beginning to arch up into them; her thighs parting a little, showing the twist of scarlet lace dividing them, the little flames of hair almost as red.

“Do you think you will remember this tomorrow?”

There’s the hint of a smile. “I’m not – sure, Headmistress – “

Two more hard smacks, landing on cheeks that are already hot and mottled, shading towards crimson in places.

“Does that make you more certain?”

“I – ah – _think_ perhaps – “

“ ‘Think’ is not good enough, Miss Ashtoreth. You _thought_ you could control your impulses after the incident with the half-crowns on the quad. After taking down the switchboard. After that _especially_ egregious episode of stealing fruit from the trees in the kitchen gardens. Which you _encouraged_ the fourth-formers to lie about.”

The next swat isn’t telegraphed, strikes her arse before the Headmistress’ sentence is finished, and it’s hard and she seems to be trying to find a place for the surfeit of sensation, rocking her hips.

Another, lighter swat.

“Oh, Miss Ashtoreth. What a wicked girl you are. This excites you, doesn’t it? You were looking for it. You thought you could play your stodgy old Headmistress.”

A sharp, hard, hissing intake of breath as the Headmistress’ finger delves abruptly under the strand of lace, between lips that are swimming with moisture.

“Clearly it excites you _very_ much. I confess it’s difficult to know what to do with you.”

The finger’s not stopping its slow investigation of the state of Miss Ashtoreth beneath her knickers.

“It seems you’re quite incorrigible, but if you agree to some extra lessons, we can reduce the term of your probation. We will start by demonstrating ways that a wayward tongue like yours might be used properly. Kneel up in front of me, if you please. Hands behind your back.”

The kilt whispers back down as Miss Ashtoreth complies, and an expression of mixed pain and arousal flashes over her face as it brushes her arse, where blood is still pulsing under the skin..

“You may end the lesson at any time, but there will be extra credit if you finish.”

The prefect nods.

“Undo my blouse and my camisole, and set my spectacles aside. I have a reliable report of what you were doing with the junior prefects after lights out. You are to show me. I will not tolerate any evasion.”

The Headmistress’ breasts are rounded, smelling faintly of violet powder, the nipples pink and thick. Miss Ashtoreth is tall enough that, though kneeling, she has to bend slightly to reach them.

“Something like this, marm.”

Her mouth closes over one fat nipple. Her movements are soft, lazy, the curiously agile tongue sliding slowly between her lips. When the nipple hardens she changes to the other, a little moan escaping her as she feels it grow fuller.

“That excites you too, doesn’t it? I may have neglected to realize how much you need an outlet for those high spirits.”

“If you say so, marm.”

“I do. You’re quite skilled at this, but you still have something to learn. Open your own blouse.”

Miss Ashtoreth complies slowly, baring her narrow chest, a single chain dangling over her breastbone.

“Small, but very pretty. Play with them.”

The prefect’s manicure is also not school regulation, the nails not long but painted a trendy black that shows up vividly against the deep russet of her nipples. She rubs both at once, bringing them up to soft points.

“Well, they _are_ quite pert.” The Headmistress lifts one with the tip of a finger. “Let’s show you how these should be treated.”

The Headmistress’ lips are a pink Cupid’s bow without any rouge. She leans forward to brush them over one hard little nipple as if carefully registering its exact texture, kisses it as chastely as if it were her neighbour’s cheek in church. A deep shiver ripples through the prefect at the tentativeness of the contact, balanced as she is on her knees in an unforgiving posture.

“There’s so much feeling in these, and they’re very delicious to taste. Hands together still, please, Miss Ashtoreth, I want you to focus entirely on what I can make you feel.”

The Headmistress uses the bare tip of a warm tongue to outline the small nipple she’s just kissed, moving out to describe a circle around the satiny aureole that surrounds it. Miss Ashtoreth draws in a long breath as small, sharp teeth barely touch the hard flesh, pulling it delicately and holding it as the tongue-tip returns to dance over it. Slowly the tease becomes a pulsing suction, the dance of the tongue a hard prodding, the careful nips tiny wicked bites on the skin of the whole small breast.

“Let’s see to the other. Oh, exquisite.” She rubs a thumb over the second nipple, watches as it crinkles into a tighter peak. “One reads that the small ones are always the most sensitive. Kindly hold still, Miss Ashtoreth, so that I can make an assessment.”

The prefect tries not to squirm. Her arse cheeks are tingling from the spanking, the space between her legs unbearably eager for contact. The Headmistress takes the nipple between thumb and all four fingers, turning it in a slow, thoughtful roll.

“What else did you do with the junior prefects?”

“Nothing, marm. It was all in fun, like.”

“We teach here that the female body is a temple. But it is also a sublime source of pleasure. It should be enjoyed fully as the treasure it is. Undo your skirt, Miss Ashtoreth, and stand.”

The skirt drops to the carpet. Miss Ashtoreth winces as it brushes over her scalded buttocks.

“Out of those hoydenish knickers, if you please.”

The Headmistress leans forward to stroke between puffed, drenched lips.

“Do you know how to touch yourself here? Show me.”

Standing, feet planted apart, Miss Ashtoreth slowly dips a middle finger between folds fringed in fine red curls, circles its tip over the little hardening nub there; moves back and forth, hips rocking slightly, the limits of the position tantalizing her. Her nipples tighten more as the air cools them where they’ve been licked. The Headmistress’ hand covers hers after a minute, stills it.

“This is also a delicacy. It deserves the most attentive treatment. On the couch, Miss Ashtoreth.”

The prefect hisses softly at the scrape of the brocade on her backside, heat flaring up where the skin’s now not just red but a little swollen. The Headmistress slides down in front of her, pulling down a cushion to kneel on.

“Open. With your hands, please. Offer yourself to me.”

The Headmistress’ tongue and lips are as clever here as they were on her nipples, light kisses down a soft belly followed by slow strokes of a tongue-tip along the edge of salt-wet lips, phantom flicks over the hood that covers the hard peak between them. 

“You want to be filled up, don’t you? If you do well on today’s lesson, we’ll consider it. Keep that in mind. We have plenty to learn yet, dear.”

Those oddly girlish lips close over the prefect’s straining clit, making tiny suckling motions. It’s impossible not to rock into the sensation, and the rub of the brocade on insulted buttocks burns and teases and makes her moan with longing.

“You’ve a very sensitive little arse, haven’t you?” The Headmistress tucks her hands under cheeks still radiating heat, kneads them with soft strokes of her fingerpads as she returns to close her mouth over the whole forepart of Miss Ashtoreth’s sex, tongue in bare contact with the hard peak of it as she sucks rhythmically, deeply. Blood pushes into already painfully full flesh, the movements building toward release, thwarted by the stinging drag over spanked skin that forces the prefect to stop moving once and again.

“I believe you are ready for one of my advanced lessons. Remember, continuing is up to you. But if you do, you must follow direction.”

The prefect’s all but crying at the loss of contact, the nearness of fulfilment slipping away.

“Turn and put your hands on the sofa back. Feet well apart, if you please.”

Miss Ashtoreth complies, opening herself entirely. “Very good. I want a clear view. Oh, how lovely, your hair here shows up so vividly in a good light.”

A feather touch riffles through curls clinging with moisture; both hands track only a little less lightly up the backs of long, lean-muscled thighs. The Headmistress seems to be contemplating a moment, and then there’s the light rake of nails over skin that’s still pulsing heat.

Miss Ashtoreth sucks in a breath. One hand closes over each blotched, stinging cheek to open the shallow cleft between them, exposing a violet-pink pucker that tightens a little as the Headmistress’ breath whispers over it.

“Do you know how to take pleasure here?”

“Please, Headmistress, show me.”

“Since you’ve cooperated so meekly, I shall.”

Soft thumbs spread the base of the cleft a little more.

“But you’re to hold very still. You remain on probation.”

There’s a closer waft of heated breath, then the barest, plush tip of the Headmistress’ tongue touching tender skin. Prefect Ashtoreth tightens her grip on the sofa back until her knuckles whiten, but doesn’t move beyond the reflexive heave of her ribs as she pulls in a deeper breath, with a sound almost like dread, except that it’s followed by a muted moan in the back of her throat.

The tongue’s a dancer, like the ballerina revolving in place on the glass of a mechanical music-box: a _pirouette_ as it draws circles, a _jete_ as it flicks and lands again; a slow _glissade_ _en avant,_ a return _en arriere._ The tempo’s _adagio,_ extracting sensation from every delicate crease and pleat with gradual luxury. After a few minutes Miss Ashtoreth begins to tremble, palpably willing her knees to stay rigid.

A _tendu,_ extending forward toward the crux of everted lips; sliding back along the smooth plain of silky flesh behind them. The prefect utters a faint whimper as the tongue-tip performs the quick spirals of a _chaine,_ the flutter of a _battement._

“You’re doing very well,” the Headmistress says, but her pupil only whines with want at the loss of contact. “Steady now, Miss Ashtoreth.”

A single finger dips between the swollen lips, drags a trail of slick towards the already moist rosette behind them: presses gently into its centre.

“You’re not to resist.”

Prefect Ashtoreth wants to do anything but. She opens to the light pressure of the fingertip against her, relaxing onto it, shaking every few heartbeats with the need to push back.

“Very, _very_ good.”

The finger leaves again. It’s a torment of suspended time, waiting for it to return; when it does, it’s slippery with more than merely her own juices, but teases around a perimeter, just outside the place where thicker skin becomes the delicacy of a closed flowerbud.

“Not a sound now.”

The prefect’s head drops and her spine tightens, but she manages to arrest all other movement as the circling finger touches the tenderer folds where the flower opens, sinks in one knuckle deep. There’s only a faint tremor the length of her body as it presses down, pulls back, enters again, coated with a thick slick. She wills herself not to react to the slow trickle along one lip of her cunt where her body’s reacted with a little gush. Her clit’s desperate for contact, painfully full.

“All the way in now, Miss Ashtoreth. I’m quite confident you can take this.”

The languid, hesitating glide inside her lasts through more than a dozen ticks of the Headmistress’ old-fashioned grandfather clock. It’s so silent that her uncannily sensitive ears can hear the melodious ghost of reverberation inside the case.

“I will frig your sweet arse with my hand, Miss Ashtoreth, and you will hold still and do nothing but take it. Do you know how lovely your little rim looks clasped around me? It’s going to be quite beautiful when I add another finger. I plan to stretch it out tight. Oh, yes, you’re ready for the entire lesson.”

Clearly there’s no rush. The single finger slides almost out, teases the exquisitely vulnerable band of flesh just inside her rim, sinks in again –- a half dozen, ten, twenty times. She’s willing herself to stop her hips from rocking, the yearning to be filled and touched mounting to a steady ache in her cunt.

“I wish I could see your little nipples. I know they must be simply longing for another kiss. Focus on them while I do this. Ah-ah-ah, you almost moved. Stay the course, Miss Ashtoreth.”

She can’t help a miserable little sound when the finger withdraws, nor a sharp gasp when it returns moments later joined by a second.

“Open for me, my dear. Oh, yes, that’s it, you’re doing splendidly. I have a lovely collection of playthings, you know, and if I choose to take you on for extra credit, we shall have to see what can be done. I think that with proper training you could learn to enjoy being filled in both places at once. You already want that a little, don’t you? Squeeze if I’m right.”

The Headmistress must be pleased at the answering clench, because she hums approval, turns the two fingers a half-revolution as the pressure eases.

“That was very lovely to see, dear. You’re getting ever so pink and puffy here. It’s quite sensitive by now, isn’t it…?” The tip of a thumb barely trails along a little of her stretched rim, slides forward to the bridge of flesh beyond.

“Should I continue? I like to let my pupils learn at their own pace. The lesson sinks in so much more deeply.” She’s withdrawing slowly as she speaks, hesitating with both fingertips lodged just inside the little pleated ruff of muscle.

“ _Please,_ Headmistress.”

“Hold steady then, Miss Ashtoreth. The lesson will be over if you move. Self-control is an area where you need work. The entire faculty is in agreement.”

“I _promise.”_ She’s almost weeping.

“Very well then. In we go, pay attention, you’ll feel this little curl inside your pretty quim. Brace yourself.”

There are soft cries stuttering through the long outbreath, but she holds her stance, even as a few sharp random darts of pain flash between her legs where need is rising past the point of tolerance. Tiny wet noises mark the steady working of the headmistress’ fingers, and she gives another choked squeak as they spread apart a little, stretching her.

“I could try three, but are you still with me, Miss Ashtoreth? Squeeze for yes.”

Trying to close on the extra stretch almost undoes her resolve. The Headmistress waits until it’s clear she’s mastered herself, then pulls back and slowly forces three fingertips clustered together into the reddened pucker. They enter very slowly, encountering resistance, waiting for the little hitch of ease that admits them one knuckle deep, then a second.

“All right, dear, it’s perfectly fine now to move so that I can feel you, but not enough so that I can see you. That’s it, only a very tiny bit.” She’s all business, the clustered fingers delving deep and drawing back in a steady pump that’s reflected in the prefect’s ragged breathing. “Do you see why I sucked up your fat little clit so full and hard? Can you feel this there?”

“Yes, Headmistress – “

“You want this, don’t you, Miss Ashtoreth? It’s what you were looking for, provoking me so. You just couldn’t find a way to ask. Doing so many things that would force me to discipline you. Wearing those knickers when you knew I was likely to see them. You are a fearful little flirt, but this is what you need, isn’t it?"

“Yes, marm, _please – “_

“Careful, dear. You almost pushed, and I’d have been obliged to stop. You wouldn’t want the lesson to stop when it’s so nearly complete, would you? You’re learning to take this so deeply.” The fingers are buried in her, spreading apart as best they can against her tightness, staying that way as they thrust. “Think of what I did to your delicious little nipples. Think about my mouth on that hard clit. It’s bursting, isn’t it? Too sensitive to touch? Imagine I’m touching it anyway. But you’re going to come like this, if you can stay with me. Feel how excited your little rim’s become. You’re starting to clamp down on me whether you want to or not, you can’t help it, can you? Come on, it won’t take much more, hold yourself steady – that’s it – oh, how _splendid,”_ as Miss Ashtoreth groans from deep in her belly and her knees give way. The last pulses clench around fingers pressing deep into her, sliding ever so slightly out a half dozen times.

“You did move at the end there, but you made such an effort. I won’t count it against you, my dear.”

The prefect’s buckled to her knees, cheek against the brocaded sofa that smells a little of her sex and a little of centuries. The Headmistress reaches under her, pulls her tenderly back against a pillowy bosom.

“There’s a reason you’re my favourite, you know. You’re quite the cleverest of the prefects, and the loveliest.”

Miss Ashtoreth’s still shaking, blouse undone, thighs blotched with damp, hair stuck against her temples. Headmistress Aziraphale smooths it back, pets her like a kitten.

“You’ve accepted your chastisement and been very attentive to your lesson. Headmistress can give you the afternoon off classes. I’ll write you a note.”

“Promise t’wake me up in time for dinner?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Yes, dear. I suppose I might have given you an appetite for once.”

* * *

Crowley becomes vaguely aware that he dropped off to sleep in Aziraphale’s study and is waking up in his ridiculous, well-loved flannel bedclothes. He senses that he’s changed back, a reaction he’s had before to a hard orgasm in his female corporation; the form can experience so much, the feelings are so overwhelming. The angel’s joined him in the switch, downplaying the susceptibility, which is like Aziraphale’s courtesy. He stretches and makes an inarticulate noise, burrowing into pillows and a warm embrace at once.

“Mmm. Didn’t come.”

“That was hardly my impression, dear.”

“No, I meant you,” he says in a muzzy way that only the angel could understand.

“That was all for you, darling. I’m suitably rewarded.”

Crowley doesn’t have it in him to argue.

“It went against my grain at first to scold you like that. There were times I meant it, you know, in the past, and I’m ashamed of them now.”

“Loved every minute of it.”

“You were so obedient.”

“Liked it.”

“I didn’t think obedience was at all your sort of thing.”

“Different when it’s you." Crowley stretches long and luxuriously, with a comfortable grunt. "Trust you.”

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, dear.”

“Me neither. Just do.” There’s a sly little smile at this, a closer serpentine wriggling and wrapping. After a moment: “ _Quim?”_

“Well, it’s a bit archaic, but you knew precisely what I meant. It was a perfectly well understood term not that long ago.”

“I was there too, angel. ‘n fact actually had one at the time.”

“I suppose this is the moment to admit that I had a small collection of, um, spirited novels at one point. They may still be in the storage room somewhere.”

“Must’ve read ‘m well.”

“How would you say I’m getting on with this whole _female corporation_ thing?”

“Top-notch. Actually had a little to show Prefect Ashtoreth, that time.”

“Well, I always said Hell didn’t understand pleasure properly either. Both sides too fixated on punishment, really.”

“You put ’em together well.”

 _And he still isn’t sure which he deserves,_ muses Aziraphale _,_ but all he says is: “So has Prefect Ashtoreth learned her lesson?”

“Oh, not hardly. Wait’ll you see what she has planned for the Board of Governors next.”

“I hope the story involves Canon Gabriel and more rats.”

“Workin’ on that.”

“I still wish I could have seen you stare him down in person.”

“So do I.” Another pause, another reflective question: _“Playthings?_

“Well, I did a bit of shopping next door. You’ve been quite inspiring, dear, after all. One perceives some real possibilities.”

Crowley doesn’t answer. He’s already asleep again.

He always sleeps deeply and long, but never as peacefully as after games like this. Prefect Ashtoreth didn’t chase her own pleasure; she did nothing but what she was told, accepted a reward for scripted penitence.

Aziraphale smiles and pulls his demon gently closer. _He only laid his life down, next to mine, for the world. He deserves pleasure, and joy. And he still thinks he’s unforgivable, that it has to come at the price of at least a little pain._

He - she - never talks about it. Maybe, one day, they will. One day Prefect Ashtoreth will get her reward for being the Head Girl, and an ornament to the school, and there’ll be no chastisement that isn’t laced with play and laughter..

He resolves to let Crowley sleep as long as he likes. Dinner’ll be when they decide it will.

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my gratuitous smut! Kudos are kisses, shares are life, comments are candy that's safe for your teeth. Come reassure me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


End file.
